What if, in hindsight, the director's cut of your life reverse engineers your current grasp of common sense.

News stories and memories colliding around rollercoasters, circuses and empty church buildings. Outrageous, glorious, both?

Just notes on certainty and hearsay, as I thnk aloud about how artificial intelligence shows us more than we wanted to see about what we're full of.

These things would only ever happen in church or in a crisis. (Like Tom Hanks with an ice skate — needs must. Sometimes. Other times it's inappropriate, dangerous, outrageous and misguided.) Hence my new fancy word, ship-wreck-less-ons. The kind of things any one of us might learn in Chapter Seventeen.

In slow traffic a bold sticker on the car in front becomes the talking point. What's his story, I wonder.

The whole Chapter Seventeen-ness of things seems highly unlikely and yet thoroughly Biblical at the same time. All the more reason to head for the Stage Door.

Not another thing! How on earth can someone be expected to rejoice when they've just heard the flock is even cut off from the fold now?

What happens in the space where faith, muscle memory, and a Bible story meet — this day. Or Thursday…

I had a friend who, whenever he got to "Melchizedek," said, "Wheelbarrow."

We use words all the time, and sometimes because they just come out. Is that okay for poetry? For prayer? For other people?